


from there we saw the sea

by norikae



Category: Pentagon (Korea Band), SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Coming of Age, M/M, based on control tower (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23048800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norikae/pseuds/norikae
Summary: “It’s been there since before I moved here,” Yanan supplies awkwardly, out of some need to fill the silence. “Seriously needs a new paint job.”“Oh,” Junhui says, again, and turns his head sideways against the headrest, grey light playing over his features, flickering. “Mm.”Yanan looks at Junhui, and doesn’t know what he sees.
Relationships: Wen Jun Hui | Jun/Yan An
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43
Collections: ENFANT D'ÉTÉ - ROUND 1





	from there we saw the sea

**Author's Note:**

> my prompt was as follows -
> 
> _AU based on the 2011 film "Control Tower" (starring Jun's japanese female doppelganger Hashimoto Ai): in a small cold town in Hokkaido, lonely high school student Yanan makes friends with transfer student Junhui and they start a band together. Junhui's father is caught up to by the loan sharks he was trying to evade, which was why they moved to Hokkaido, and Junhui might have to move away._
> 
> this fic follows the themes of the original movie very closely - so it was, indeed, a struggle to try to fit the boys' characters in without warping the narrative. i did my best, but apologise beforehand if it seems strange in any way...
> 
> still, i hope it is a read that moves you, at least a little bit. thank you, and i hope you enjoy your stay.

_Wakkanai, Hokkaido, 2004_

His bed is warm, the room pleasantly dark. If the world truncated here, he thinks, it might not be so bad. The edge of existence could be a comfortable place to sleep. 

“ _Gege_ ,” comes a distant call. “ _Gege, gege, gege_.” 

Each iteration is closer than the first. Fighting a slowly growing sense of dread Yanan ignores it, choosing instead to burrow his face deeper into his pillow. It suffices until there’s a slice of light falling right into his eye, and a sudden unceremonious wash of cold air over his face. 

“ _Gege_ ,” his younger sister chirps in the doorway, far too cheerful for the hour. Backlit by the glare of the hallway she is nothing more than a little sister shaped outline in black. “Aren’t you going to go to school?”

Disgruntled, he closes the affected eye and inhales deeply. “Be up in a min,” he says, hoping it’ll get rid of her. “Go down and help mum first.”

Yanwen doesn’t move, staring at him expectantly with her large, doe-like eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Yanan grumbles, sitting up to show he’s awake. The pile of clothes he’s been sleeping on shifts dangerously. “Coming. Ugh.”

When he makes his reluctant way down the stairs his sister is tiptoeing to whisper in his mother’s ear, comical in her puerile lack of subtlety. His mother catches sight of him, and remarks, mildly, “You slept in the closet again?”

Well, true enough. He had. “Mm,” Yanan hums perfunctorily, and drops into a seat at the table.

“You have a perfectly good bed,” she continues. “Why do you do that? It’s not like you’re some kind of animal who needs to burrow into a pile of clothes to feel safe. Aren’t you too old for this kind of thing?”

 _Because_ , he thinks, _I just want to, that’s all._ The nagging is par for the course, and it isn’t like him to be so easily bothered, but he’d slept late, and it’s _always like this_ , he thinks, people asking you to enumerate everything you do like it has to make sense to them. He’s tired, he doesn’t want to go to school, he can’t give a better answer.

So, irritation rising unbidden, he snipes, “Isn’t _“I want to”_ good enough?”

His mother’s distracted, frying eggs for Yanwen, who’s toddled over to sit opposite him at the table, kicking her legs happily. There’s a beat or two of silence before she actually replies. “Hmm? Sorry? What?”

It is anticlimactic at best; almost humiliating, at worst. “Thanks for the food,” he says abruptly, setting his chopsticks down deliberately unceremoniously with a _clack_. His rice is untouched. “I have to go. I’ll be late for class.”

\---

The school corridors are the same as they’ve always been. Yanan shakes off the cold of fall term and their dinky public school central heating, and finds himself hesitating at the threshold to his classroom, a hand coming up to toy with one of the earbuds jammed into his ears.

 _Maybe today_ , he thinks, firmly. It’s a new term, after all, even if it’s still the same class. Maybe today will be the day he takes that step. Self-determination is key, or something. He’d heard it in a talk show his mother was watching two days prior.

Emboldened by his earlier outburst Yanan tugs, inhaling deeply as he does to brace himself for the way his safety net falls away. And - 

And the world is loud. In another language people are chattering - too loud, too fast. _Hayashi’s new hairstyle is wild_ , someone is saying. Someone else, _did Morita get a new girlfriend?_ Then _Come on, guys you’re only born with the one left hand, ya know!_ There’s a peal of raucous laughter, a howl like _Kou-kun, that’s way too much!_ Five voices chime in, all at once, overlapping. He can’t place a face to any of them.

He falters. _Or not_. There’s always tomorrow, right? Or the day after, or the next.

His hand slips the earbud back in of its own accord. Breathing as evenly as he can he reaches out, sliding the door open, and steps in. Nobody turns to look, not when he shuts the door behind him, not when he hangs up his coat and makes his way to his seat at the back of the class. He doesn’t relax until he’s seated at his desk.

It’s good, it’s easy. Like this, alone, he’s fine.

\---

“The new boy, you know, he’s cute, but like, he’s _totally_ weird.”

Yanan picks at his bento as he inadvertently overhears the conversation of the girls next to him, chattering away without regard for his presence. Another one, her hair in braids, widens her eyes in surprise. “Really?” she asks. “That’s such a pity. Why?”

The first one - she has bangs, an almost city girl-esque cut - cuts back in. “Yeah, yeah, I heard. So, like, Miyo-chan went up to talk to him, right?”

The others listen with rapt attention. Bangs continues authoritatively, placing both palms on the table as she talks. “And like, she was just saying hi, and offered to show him around, but like. All he said was _thanks_. Yeah, I _know_ , right?”

“He didn’t even look at her! She stood there awkwardly until she decided to go.” There’s a chorus of groans as she sits back and nods. “It was _so_ embarrassing for her. I felt so bad on her behalf.” The groans rise into a murmur of speculation.

“Isn’t he foreign?” Braids muses. “Maybe they don’t know how to treat pretty girls over there. Or maybe he didn’t understand what she was saying?”

 _The new boy_ , Yanan thinks. He’d been introduced in the morning, a few periods before, but he most definitely spoke at least some Japanese. He’d seen the aforementioned interaction - an awkward few seconds of the prettiest girl in class smiling at him, everyone watching as he had given the bare minimum of a reply before proceeding to pull out a book in Mandarin and beginning to read.

 _Bad move_ , Yanan thinks offhandedly, picking the pickles out of his rice. _They'll social-pariah you now_. For a brief moment he feels bad - maybe he should talk to the kid.

But well, he thinks, chewing slowly on a mouthful, it isn't any of his business. And anyway, he's got enough problems of his own.

\---

"So _this_ is where you go all recess time."

Yanan startles at the sound of a voice, too-close to his ear, milliseconds before the earbud is plucked out. When he turns around he's met with curious eyes, bright with intent. Quickly he snatches it back from the intruder and scuttles backwards, putting space between the two of them on the assembly bench.

"W-What?" he manages, then curses internally. It's the new boy, staring at him, smiling like he knows something he doesn't. "Why are you talking to me?"

"You seem alright," the boy hums - Junhui, Yanan remembers his name is, because it's comforting to hear another name in his own tongue. "Come on. Let's be friends."

Yanan thinks about the way he'd shunned the girls in their class, and wants to make a remark about the incongruity, but doesn't. That would be giving in to the conversation, and all he wants is to be alone. "No," he blurts, and puts the earbud back in, turning his back on the stranger.

"Why?" Junhui, pressed against the back of the bench, is suddenly at his other side, chanting. "Why why why why _why_?"

He shifts, uncomfortable with the attention. "Because," he mumbles, and leaves it at that.

He can feel Junhui's stare on him, catlike eyes watching. Determinedly, he stares at the speech podium at the front of the hall.

“...Fine.” The presence behind him pulls away, and at once Yanan feels oddly bereft. “If you don’t want to tell me why, that’s fine.” A pause, and then. “I get it, y’know. People tend to need you to justify everything to them. But if you don’t want to, there’s nothing else to it.”

Junhui sounds a little bit disappointed, but not overly bothered. Like he’s used to accepting that not everything goes the way you want. “If you ever change your mind though, y’know, I’m here.”

There’s the sound of sneakers squeaking on a polished floor as he makes his way out. Even though the voice is getting echoey and distant, there’s a clarity to it that cuts through the greying fog. 

Yanan makes up his mind in an instant. Standing up abruptly, he pushes off the bench and stumbles clumsily towards the other boy. He somehow stops himself before he walks straight into a bench; hand braced on its back, he calls out. “Hey. Wait. J - Junhui.”

Halfway to the door, Junhui spins around. Even cast in shadow, his eyes are bright. “Hmm?”

“I’m Yanan,” he says slowly, voice thick. He hasn’t introduced himself in so long. “It’s - it’s nice to meet you.”

That face - foreign, but already beginning to grow familiar - springs into bloom. “I’m Junhui,” he tells him. “But you can call me Jun.”

\---

Two days later, Yanan comes into class and glances over at Junhui’s table as he’s putting his bag down to see a sign written in red taped to the back of his chair.

_OWES PEOPLE MONEY AND WON’T PAY UP!_

The words are mocking, garish in their cruelty. He stares, transfixed, at the blatant callousness, and slowly spins around, trying to locate whoever it is that’s written it. What for, he doesn’t know - he just thinks, maybe, that he’d like to ask _why_.

But the class is an ocean of unknown. Out of the blur rises a pitched laugh or two - an all-encompassing murmur and buzz - _I don't want to be here,_ he thinks, and spins on his heel to leave, slipping out by the back of the class.

Filtering out of the school hall is a song.

 _Junhui_? Cautiously, he picks his way through the benches, drawing closer to the figure at the grand piano.

Abruptly, the music stops.

"You play really well," Yanan offers, smiling tentatively. Junhui, unblinking, stares back. "Did you take lessons or something?"

"Yeah, but not anymore. Well - I wanted to be a concert pianist," Junhui tells him, looking wistfully at his fingers perched on ivory and black. "Until."

"Until?"

Junhui draws his hands away, then out in an arc, swooping upwards to stretch before dropping them back unceremoniously onto the bench. Like a grounded bird, Yanan thinks. Forgetting how to fly. "You saw the sign, right?"

Unsure, Yanan nods once, very hesitantly. "Yeah, but -"

"It's true," Junhui says, and smiles, very brightly. "Turns out when that happens, everything gets taken from you. That's why I'm here. We ran all the way from China, and now we're running all over Japan. I'm getting pretty good at that, you know." Pause. "Running."

Yanan's head snaps up at this. "Junhui," he mumbles, tongue thick and tripping over the words. "I'm - I'm sorry."

Junhui shakes his head, face stuck in that ineffable half smile. "Don't be. You didn't do anything."

 _Exactly_ , Yanan thinks. _I could've said something to them. Torn the sign off. Instead?_

There's a _thud_ as Junhui flops off the piano bench, goes up to him and knocks their shoulders together, friendly. Knocked out of his reverie it is all Yanan can do to stare at him, blinking slowly.

"Stop standing there, silly," he chirps, eyes squeezed into crescents. "We'll be late for class."

\---

It's gym period, except Mitsuoka-sensei is the sort of teacher who's been around long enough to know there isn't any point in forcing students to run around in circles when they don't want to. A quick learner, Junhui is leaning against a pommel horse in his regular winter uniform, blazer and all; Yanan, at least, had made an effort. His track shoes are squeaky white against the laminated wood of the gym floor.

“You’re never listening to anything, are you,” Junhui says. “Your earphones lead to your pocket, but there’s no way you can fit a walkman in there.”

“N - not true,” Yanan says, defensively. One hand fiddles with the wire of his cheap hundred-yen store earphones, light on the other end. “Sometimes I just forget to take them out.”

Junhui nods like he agrees, but he’s smiling again, that strange impenetrable one he has. “Alright,” he says. “I won’t ask you what artists you like if you promise to listen to this.”

A protest is only half out of his mouth when Junhui tugs the zip of his bag open and slides a walkman out. Unfurling a pair of earphones that look even more beaten up than Yanan’s own, Junhui offers him one side as he plugs them in to the player, hits it a few times with the heel of his hand, then jabs play.

Yanan doesn’t know what he was expecting - a Chinese pop song, maybe, or one of those rock bands that are so trendy in Japan nowadays. Instead he is met with a tune like a lullaby, a wistful melody curling into his head on delicate piano notes. They sit in silence for a while, listening.

The song ends. “Oh, I’ve gotta pee,” Junhui announces, somewhat crudely and very abruptly. “Here. Don’t go anywhere.” He upends the walkman into Yanan’s lap, pats him companionably on the shoulder, and then jogs off to the far end of the hall, where the restrooms are.

 _Huh_ , Yanan thinks, and stares at the grey matte of the player, mottled in areas with age. A thumb absently traces across the fading paint of the _SONY_ and then, almost instinctively, shifts towards the _Open_ button and presses down, once.

The lid unhooks open to reveal a plain white CD, the sort with _70MB Non-Rewritable_ emblazoned across in shimmering grey negative space in the white coat of paint. What catches Yanan’s eye, though, is the ungainly handwriting sprawled across the veneer, trying poorly to track the curve of the disc.

_Recital 2001 - Final Piece_

He feels, suddenly, like a voyeur. Hastily snapping the lid back shut, Yanan untangles the earphones from his person and neatly coils them to rest on top of the Walkman. The furtiveness leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and all at once he feels something ugly like guilt settle in, crawling in at the back of his mind.

_Yeah, but not anymore._

“Hey.” A voice right by his ear causes him to suppress a jump of surprise, but just barely. “Missed me while I was gone?” Junhui teases, dropping himself back into his seat next to Yanan.

Skin thrumming with some sort of electricity, Yanan turns to face him, eyes wide and face set with earnest intent. “Junhui,” he says, very firmly. He has no idea what it is he’s going to say until he says it. “Let’s make a band.”

\---

“Stop making that face,” Junhui hums, scrolling down the tabs and jabbing a finger straight into the screen of Yanan’s iBook. “It’s a G chord, a G.”

“Which one was that -“ Yanan fumbles for a grip before his fingers settle into the appropriate position, and he strums once, the strings twanging oddly as they go. “Ah, yes, like that, isn’t it?”

Junhui snorts. “Well, something like,” he says, then pats the laptop on the top of its smooth white clamshell. “Nice computer, by the way. Super fancy.”

“It’s not that n-” Yanan starts, instinctively, then stops himself in his tracks. “ _Ah_. Stop laughing at me. You’re the one who was supposed to play the guitar, not me.”

“But it was you who said you found a guitar in the garage,” Junhui shoots back, humming as he stands up to take a look around Yanan’s room. It’s clean, mostly devoid of decoration except the odd movie poster here and there. On a stand next to his bookshelf is an _erhu_. “Why’d you have one if you can’t play it?”

Yanan huffs, clumsily arranging his fingers into the configuration for an F and strumming experimentally. The barre doesn’t hold; the sound comes out muted, and the strings don’t reverberate the way they’re supposed to. “Spent all my life playing that thing over there,” he says. “I may seem like a fool to you now, but on _that_ thing, I’m a maestro. I promise.”

“Oh?” Junhui sounds intrigued, scuttling over to shove himself into Yanan’s line of sight, completely obscuring the screen. “Look who’s finally tooting his own horn! I didn’t know you had that in you.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Yanan mumbles, weakly pushing Junhui aside. “Anyway, unless we become a classical Chinese music ensemble I’m stuck learning to play this. I don’t suppose you can play the _guzheng._ Or the _sheng_ , perhaps?”

Junhui laughs out loud, delighted. “ _Yanan and Junhui’s Two-Person Orchestra_!” he hoots. “That’d be a real hit with the ladies, wouldn’t it. But no, it’s piano only, for me. Sorry.”

Yanan releases the pressure he’s putting on the guitar strings, and rubs a thumb over the side of his index finger, where indents have cut into the skin, made it red and tender. “If we’re going two-piece,” he says, thinking carefully, “My dad might know a guy.”

\---

“Since it was yer father who asked so nicely,” the bartender of the pub in town says, fingers tapping a tattoo on the oddly-shaped cloth bundle laid out on the counter, “I’ll lend it to ya for free, of course. But - “ he adds, just as Junhui’s reaching out for the item, eyes aglow. “On one condition. Everything’s got a price, and all that.”

Yanan purses his lips, mildly displeased. _It’s not like he’s using it or anything_. “Yeah?” he asks, anyway. “What is it?”

The uncle beams, setting both his hands on his hips. “You’ll play live music here once a week. For as long as it’s on loan. How about it?”

“Live music?” Yanan squeaks, just as Junhui surges forward and places both palms on the counter. “Th - there’s no way, I can’t do th-”

“It’s a done deal,” Junhui chirps loudly, drowning out Yanan’s protest. He sticks a hand out that is very gingerly taken. “Thank you so much, mister! You’re the best!”

He grabs the keyboard and sticks it under one arm, and jostles Yanan into his grip with the other. “We’ll go and start practicing right away! Give us two weeks to the first gig, is that okay?”

Looking mildly bewildered, old man Yamazaki nods. “That’s alright, lad,” he says. “Bundle up as you see yerself out.”

“Thanks!” Junhui shouts again, pushing a floundering Yanan out. When they hit the _noren_ they discover that, outside, it has started to snow.

“You’re insane,” Yanan mumbles halfheartedly, watching Junhui as he tightens the cloth bundle and fiddles with it to make a grip so he can carry it back. “I can’t even strum properly. How’re we supposed to do that?”

“I have the utmost faith in you,” Junhui tells him, and tugs on the baubles of his knitted beanie. “Just practice, funky boy. If it’s the two of us, I’m sure we can make it work.”

\---

“Junhui- _ge_ ,” Yanwen says, crawling over Yanan so she can insert herself between him and Junhui and blink up at him sweetly. “You’re very handsome. Can you be my brother instead?”

Yanan watches as Junhui laughs, glances up slightly nervously to gauge Yanan’s parents’ reactions. They’re smiling fondly at the picture they make; his mother nods at Junhui, encouragingly. After a searching moment Junhui glances back down, and gives her a gentle pat on the head. “I’m not sure how your real brother would feel about that,” he mock-lectures.

“Oh, please eat up, dear,” Yanan’s mother says, ladling a heap of broiled vegetables and mushrooms out of the hotpot and onto Junhui’s plate. “And don’t mind Yanwen. It’s just so rare for her to have someone to play with.”

“Because Yanan doesn’t have any friends!” she declares proudly, throwing up both her hands in a dramatic show of _Exactly zero!_

“That’s _gege_ to you, brat,” Yanan retorts, halfheartedly. He gestures with his chopsticks, pork wedged securely between them. “Go back to your seat. Junhui’s trying to eat.”

“But I’m not bothering him,” she drawls, smirking up at him. “He can eat all he wants, I just wanna sit here.”

Yanan’s about to object again, but Junhui shakes his head, ruffles Yanwen’s hair. He finishes chewing and swallows before he speaks. “I don’t mind. It’s nice, having a sibling.”

He glances up to find both of Yanan’s parents watching him. “I mean, I’m an only child, so… It’s nice when a room isn’t so quiet.” He smiles weakly. “You know?”

Instantly Yanan’s mother’s face crumples, and she reaches across the table, around the side of the pot, to lay a motherly hand on Junhui’s, looking him straight in the eye. “You can come around whenever you like, dear,” she tells him sincerely. “There’s always space at our table for you.” 

Then with her other hand she reaches for the ladle again, and begins to trawl through the hotpot in earnest. “Eat all you want, you’re so skinny, my gosh!”

Junhui’s eyes widen, imperceptibly, before he glances down and smiles. Yanan catalogues the shadow of his lashes on his cheek as he obediently picks up his chopsticks and bowl. Says, very softly, “Thank you.”

\---

_Hamasaki Ayumi: Despair and Decision of Light and Shadow… Do As Infinity releases live album this February… Utada Hikaru teases new American alb-_

“Hey, hey, hey. Yanan. Look at this.” Yanan’s perusal of magazine headlines is abruptly interrupted by a magazine thrust into his face, open to a badly rendered poster with fonting in both English and Japanese. “ _Grand Star Audition 2004 Edition_ ,” he reads out loud. “ _Be the next ARASHI_ …?”

A pair of eyes appears behind the paper. “Let’s join this,” Junhui says, excitedly. “We’ll make this our goal.”

Yanan glances up at him, incredulous, then back down. “It says original pieces only,” he points out, unimpressed. “Even if I approved of this idea - which I _don’t_ \- who’s going to write it?”

Junhui’s brilliant smile doesn’t budge an inch, the way he’s looking at Yanan. Realisation slowly dawning, Yanan raises an eyebrow, drags the side out of his mouth out in a grimace that conveys how ridiculous he thinks Junhui is being. 

“ _Me?_ ” he asks, disbelieving. “I just learned how to play a Bm yesterday and my fingers are still suffering.” To illustrate his point, he holds up his left hand, quivering slightly.

Junhui seizes the proffered appendage and pulls it to his face for inspection. Seemingly oblivious to their proximity, this strange intimacy, he brushes his fingers over the tips of Yanan’s own, runs them across the side of his index. “But they’re calloused,” he points out, plainly. “That shows that you can do it.”

His cheeks are burning. Suddenly aware of the fact that he is one heartbeat away from clammy, sweaty palms, Yanan wrenches his hand out of Junhui’s grip and pretends to examine it for himself, as if confirming the veracity of Junhui’s claims. “That just means I’ve been practicing,” he counters. “Nothing more.”

But Junhui is looking at him again, and Yanan finds that he is helpless but to look back. “That isn’t true,” Junhui says, with such conviction Yanan finds himself believing it. “If it’s you, I think you can do it.”

“If it’s us,” Yanan corrects. 

Junhui draws back, visibly momentarily startled. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but his jaw works once, twice, and then he’s laughing, a sound of unadulterated glee. “That’s a yes, then,” he grins, snatching the magazine back from Yanan’s grasp and spiraling just out of reach. “I’m signing us both up. No backsies!”

\---

On the bus, Yanan sits in the row behind Junhui, pressed in as close to the heater under the seat as he can manage without actually burning himself. The windows are so fogged up as to be nearly opaque; he leans his head against the glass and watches Junhui plaster himself to the outside, squinting through the dew to watch the countryside speed by.

“What are you doing,” Yanan murmurs, mildly amused. “It’s just cows and grass, all the way.”

Junhui slides his gaze over to him for a brief second, and there’s a tug at the corner of his mouth, but then he’s looking out the window again, rapt; Yanan is teetering on the edge of a doze when Junhui suddenly jolts, and slaps his palm against the glass, making a noise like a yelp.

“What? What is it?” Yanan’s eyes meet those of the bus conductor in the reflection of the rearview mirror before he turns back to Junhui, grateful there’s nobody else on the bus with them. The quiet settles back about them, a tranquil winter still. 

“That tower,” Junhui says, pointing. “What is it? A control tower?”

Yanan cocks his head. “Control tower?” Twists in his seat to look back at it, says, “No, just some sort of viewing platform. You can look out over the city from it.”

Junhui purses his lips, eyes falling half-lidded in thought. “Is that so,” he says, slowly. Twists back to sit properly in his seat, for the first time all trip. 

“It’s been there since before I moved here,” Yanan supplies awkwardly, out of some need to fill the silence. “Seriously needs a new paint job.”

“Oh,” Junhui says, again, and turns his head sideways against the headrest, grey light playing over his features, flickering. “Mm.”

Yanan looks at Junhui, and doesn’t know what he sees.

\---

He’s packing up his things after class when suddenly there’s a light bump against the edge of his table and a familiar pair of sneakers in his peripheral vision. 

“Oh, Junhui,” Yanan says, and offers him a smile. “I biked today, I can give you a lift back if you give me a sec.”

Junhui shakes his head. “You can get your bike from school tomorrow,” he says. “Hurry up and pack.”

Yanan pauses in his packing, confused. “Why?” he asks. “Do we have anything on?”

Junhui shakes his head. “Take me there,” he says, in lieu of any proper explanation. Yanan looks at him, properly, and doesn’t have to ask.

The wind is blustering out on the cliff that is their destination. Junhui lets out a whoop of delight and lets himself be carried some distance back downhill on a particularly strong gust; having reached the top, Yanan crouches close to the ground to reduce his surface area, and waits, watching.

“It’s not as big as it looks from a distance,” Junhui remarks conversationally when he has eventually joined him. He bends down to join Yanan, and grins at him, nose creasing at the edges. 

“Disappointed?” Yanan quips, then laughs. “I told you it wasn’t anything fancy.”

Curled up into a ball, Junhui tips sideways to nudge Yanan with his shoulder. “It’s nice when you laugh,” he says, contentedly. “You do that a lot more now.”

 _Because_ , Yanan thinks, but doesn’t dare to complete the sentence. Instead, aloud: “You can see our school from here.” He points outwards, tracing the major roads until his finger lands on a familiar roof. “Right there.”

Junhui makes a noise. “Ooh,” he says. “You’re right, it’s really distinct.” 

For a while they sit there in silence, leaning into each other to find some respite from the buffeting wind. The sea cuts a clean line at the horizon, looks from here to be completely still. When he ventures a glance at Junhui his cheeks and nose are ruddy from the cold, and his eyes look distant as he speaks. 

“It looks like a control tower to me still,” he says, decisively. “One that watches over all the lonely travelers, picking their way through time. Something solid, like that.”

Junhui reaches a gloved hand out to tug at a blade of dried grass. Fortunately, it hasn’t snowed. “And if you’re going off somehow, it’ll send you a signal. _Beep-beep_. Tug you back on track.”

He increases the tension, and the blade snaps. They’re both staring at the brown piece of grass in between Junhui’s fingers when he breathes, softly, “Is it okay for me to stay somewhere?”

Yanan reaches out, pulls at it. Junhui doesn’t put up any resistance. “You can stay here,” he says. Wants to add something more, but can’t find the words for it.

Junhui breathes a laugh. “If I weren’t being chased,” he muses, “If I weren’t being chased, then maybe this is where I would choose. But I am, and I’ve been running, and even now when it feels like we are looking out on the edge of the world -” He gazes out, and lets the sentence die off for a moment, thinking.

“There’s always another precipice, isn’t there? I’ll run to that one, then, and they’ll follow us, to one more, and the next, and the next, until someone or something gives way. If we trip, if we falter - I don’t know if there’ll be anything for us left to do.”

“Come back here,” Yanan says again, with greater force this time. He’s never been good with words, but there’s an urgency that has settled upon them, like he has to say something before an hourglass somewhere runs out. 

“You can - you can make this tower a mark to call you home. It’ll send you a signal, right, and you can come back - wherever you go, it’ll still be here.” He twists around to point at it, its faded rust-red still brilliant against the stormy grey sky. In the air he draws a line towards them as he speaks. “Tower to Junhui. _Beep-beep_.”

When he turns back Junhui is incredibly close, nose a hair’s width away from his. He blinks, and Junhui follows, and then the other boy is bursting out into laughter, shoving him lightly in the shoulder.

“What was that,” Junhui asks, all trace of his former melancholy gone. “That was corny as hell, Yanan, no wonder you have no friends, geez.”

“I - what,” Yanan manages, flustered. His previous bravery dissipated, he retreats back into his shell, wonders if maybe he had said too much. “I, um. I was just trying to - _ugh_. I have you, don’t I?” No sooner are the words out than he feels even more foolish than before, face close to flushing with shame. He knows his ears are red.

Junhui abruptly gets to his feet, dusting his pants off before turning around. Backlit against the sky his gaze is indecipherable. Nonchalantly he reaches a hand out towards Yanan, and tugs him up when he catches hold. 

“Yeah,” Junhui hums, sing-song. In an instant he’s somehow skipped ahead, turns around and grins. “You’re right. You have me.”

  
  


On the way back Junhui sits tucked next to him, leaning into his side. As the bus heads into town more passengers get on, filling up the bus until it is no longer the ordinary haven that it was on the way up to the peak. At some point Junhui had tugged his walkman out of his bag and offered Yanan an earbud; the sounds of some wistful balladeer crackle through his consciousness as he watches the lights blink in the night.

Eventually Junhui moves, reaches for the _Next Stop_ button. Wordlessly Yanan disentangles himself so that Junhui can keep the player. When the bus stops and the doors creak open Junhui disembarks, and there is a beat, then another, before Yanan finds himself stumbling out of his seat and rushing to the downward steps, unwilling to let it end so quickly.

“Hold on,” he calls, voice hoarse from the cold. “I’ll walk you home.”

Junhui turns, bit by bit. “It’s fine, Yanan. It’s not far from here.” In the dim lamplight his smile seems to flicker.

Then he turns back, and has just begun to walk when Yanan calls his name again. “Jun,” he says. The rest of the sentence hangs in the air, unsaid. “Junnie.”

This time when Junhui turns around, he’s beaming in a way Yanan is startled to realise he’s yet to have seen. “That’s the first time you’ve called me Jun,” he points out. The light leaks into his voice, too. But he doesn’t change his mind. “Yanan-ah. See you tomorrow.”

Something about that settles him, tames the unrest that had been threatening to consume him whole. The definiteness of a promise, no matter how small. _Like a control tower_ , he thinks distantly. _Beep-beep_.

“Yeah,” he nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He raises a hand and waves at Junhui’s diminishing silhouette as the bus door closes, and the vehicle pulls away. “Tomorrow.”

\---

The night is still, and the way the street is devoid of people makes it feel like this is the entirety of the world, and it belongs to them both. Junhui weaves through the frosty roads in a zig-zag pattern, arms out for balance; when he gets too far he spins around, feet jittering on the ice.

"Be careful," Yanan calls, unable to repress the smile on his own face. "You don't wanna slip and break your neck."

Junhui makes a noise of protest, but obediently stops the tapdancing, leaning over and bracing both his hands on his knees as he pouts. “You’re a wet blanket, Yanan,” he pronounces, officiously. “I don’t even think I’d really mind, I’m so happy right now.” 

Yanan hefts the guitar bag on his shoulder once then jogs a little to catch up to Junhui, mindful not to skid. “Yeah,” he laughs, his breath coming out in clouds. “We did pretty good, didn’t we?”

Junhui totters over to him, penguin-style. “ _Pretty good?_ ” he echoes, sounding incredulous. “Yanan, my guy, we freaking _killed it!_ ”

“What’s with that weird hip manner of speaking,” Yanan asks, brow arched as he nudges Junhui. “That’s like when people in class put on a Tokyo accent. _So, like, did you see yesterday’s episode? Wasn’t it totally like, insane? Right? Like, craz -_ Aaah _!”_

“I don’t sound like that!” Junhui cries, pushes Yanan lightly, just hard enough to make him stumble without falling. Yanan yelps, but when he recovers, still grinning, Junhui crosses his arms and furrows his brows. “I have lived in many places,” he says mysteriously, instead. “I blend in wherever I go.”

“Now you sound like a spy or something,” Yanan retorts. “But you’re right. When the whole pub started singing along I really thought I might cry or something.”

“You’re such a baby,” Junhui says. “Hey, since we did so well, you have to record the demo tape, okay?”

“The what,” Yanan starts, then remembers. “ _Oh_. For the competition…” He feels the doubt creeping back in, but remembers what it felt like to be playing for an audience with Junhui’s accompaniment, how when Yanan missed a note he knew he’d have his back until he recovered. It was reassuring, new to him. “I mean, if it’s us two, I’m sure it’s doable.”

He glances down to smile at Junhui hopefully, but Junhui’s watching his step, head turned towards his feet. Yanan can’t see his face when he chirps, brightly, “Yeah! If it’s you, it’s doable for sure.” 

Now he does look up, and has just opened his mouth to add something else when suddenly there is a shout in front of them, followed by the sounds of a tussle.

“ _This isn’t even enough for interest_!”

The voice is in Mandarin. Yanan is still looking at Junhui when he stops in his tracks, face white with dread. His gaze is fixated on the blur of a shadow that has just been almost hurled out of a side alley, at the way a quivering shape of a man scrambles into a kowtow, begging for more time.

“Dad?” Junhui’s already running, careless of the way the snow slopes in uneven piles underneath his threadbare boots. “Dad? Are you okay?”

“Jun,” Yanan breathes, takes a step forward. He thinks again about a worn-out walkman and a discarded dream burned into an unrewritable disc. This isn’t something he should see.

“Junhui,” he calls, voice only barely above a whisper. He should walk away, but he can’t, either. He takes a few tentative steps closer. “Junhui, do you need h-”

In front Junhui turns back, now burdened by his father’s sagging frame, and any trace of levity from before is gone. His eyes are wide and dark; he casts a nervous glance sideways into the shadows before speaking.

“Go home, Yanan,” he says, hoarsely. He’s already begun walking in the opposite direction. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

\---

Monday comes, and the seat in the back corner by the window is empty. Yanan tries not to stare at it, two rows over, and counts minutes till the end of lesson, hours till the end of the school day. 

Tuesday and Yanan slides into his chair, setting his bag down carefully before surreptitiously looking over for somebody he knows won’t be there. The air feels thicker than usual - almost heavy - at lunchtime he sits alone, pushing the food around his plate, and doesn’t think about how they served croquettes, which are Junhui’s favourite.

On Wednesday he bunks off, because there’s no reason to go, anyway. He locks himself in his room with the guitar and the notebook he started to keep for lyrics after Junhui had showed him the contest ad. He thinks it must show on his face; his mother doesn’t ask any questions, and even Yanwen is subdued, opting instead to spend all day in front of the television watching old Doraemon reruns.

 _I wish I could at least call_ , he thinks on Thursday, thumbing through his phone contacts aimlessly. He’d asked once, for Junhui’s phone number.

...And had been laughed off, received a friendly shove in the shoulder. “My number?” Junhui had chirped, bright as anything. “Why, do you miss me that much?” On the park bench he’d scooted all the way over so they touched on one side. “Guess I’ll just have to stick to you more often, then!”

Which had been that. Yanan realises now that Junhui had merely been saving him from the embarrassment of realising he’d asked someone who was running from debt an awkward question.

His phone makes a noisy, plastic clatter as he snaps it shut abruptly and lets it skid across the table. Junhui did that a lot, protecting others instead of looking out for himself. Except in this case _others_ had always been Yanan. _Did I deserve it?_ Yanan wonders, gazing at the seat by the window. _Did I give him anything back?_

...He doesn’t have the answer. He isn’t sure if he really wants it, either.

\---

On the third week of Junhui’s absence, Takada-sensei hands out a series of forms on the same old thing - aspiration-setting for the new semester, self-evaluations and peer-evaluations on the one that has passed, all to be signed off by the relevant student as well as their parents.

Yanan writes his name on each sheet dutifully and proceeds to resume not-paying-attention, until Takada-sensei clears his throat and says, in that way figures of authority have when they’re concerned but trying not to sound overly so, “I’ll need someone to hand this to Wen-san. Any volunteers?”

Someone in front of the class starts to heckle, something along the lines of how _just like money, he won’t give it back_ \- Yanan bolts upright in his seat, raising his hand to offer. “I’ll go.”

A visible relief crosses Takada-sensei’s face. “Thank you, Yan-san,” he says, walking over to Yanan to pass the paper to him. “I want these in by Wednesday. Now, if you’ll turn your attention to page 56 of your textbook…”

  
  


He remembers the bus stop by the landscape, hand flying out to hit the button before he’s even really processed it. 

Somewhere along the ride up a miniature snowstorm had begun to blitz. Yanan zips up his coat, flips his hood up, and manoeuvres his backpack to sit on his front instead of his back as he taps off, breath held.

The cold is a slap in the face. Yanan allows himself one forceful exhale and a moment of reprieve in the shelter of the bus stop before he steps out into the sea of white, navigating by guesswork alone.

Finally he comes to the address he had gotten from Takada-sensei. It is a low block made of metal walls that rattle in the storm. The only thing marking the block number is a wooden plaque with peeling acrylic paint; at the door, he hesitates before knocking.

At first there is no answer. Yanan chews on his lip, fist hanging in the air, and fights not to feel his heart fall. _He probably didn’t hear it_ , he tells himself. _It’s just Junhui. Your friend._

 _My friend_ , another voice in his head shoots back. _And yet I never really checked if he was okay._

The imaginary weight of the forms in his backpack reassures him. Even if Junhui doesn’t want to talk, he’s come to deliver something, and he should at least see that through. Bracing himself he raises his fist back to the door and knocks again, this time louder. He takes a step back and waits, chin drawn in to the comfort of his scarf, eyes fixed on the door like a lighthouse that will give him a sign.

The seconds tick by agonisingly until abruptly it opens, just a sliver. When Junhui sees who it is he opens the door far enough to reveal himself standing in the doorway in his pajamas. His face is drawn, eyes blank.

“Junhui,” Yanan blurts, unzipping his backpack with clumsy gloved hands. “Takada - Takada-sensei told me to pass you these.” He holds out the paper, crumpled in sheets, and knows it must look a pathetic sight.

Junhui blinks, slowly, then reaches out and takes them. “Thanks,” he says, and turns to go back in.

“W-Wait,” Yanan calls, reaching out a hand that brushes the fabric of Junhui’s shirt sleeve. Stung, he draws his own hand back, and fiddles with the zip of his backpack. Junhui’s gaze is like lead in his lungs. Somehow he can’t really speak. “And - and I wanted to give you this.”

His hand is shaking as he pulls out another sheet of paper - pencil marks on printed staves. At the top, in ungainly handwriting: _Control Tower._ “The song. I. I completed it, like you told me to.”

Junhui reaches out, then falters. He tugs his hand back just as it brushes the edge of the paper. “Good job,” he mumbles, gaze fixed on the ground. “I - I have to go back in now.”

It’s like wading through a dream and suffocating, watching Junhui as a subdued version of himself. “Junnie,” Yanan says. “Junnie, I - but I wrote this for you.”

Junhui freezes. Slowly he turns back, and what Yanan sees there for a moment scares him cold - Junhui, whom he had never thought would back down against anything, looks afraid.

“Yanan,” he says. He breathes in, mouth hanging open, and then tightly clamps it shut, shaking his head as he finally takes a step out of his house, shutting the door securely behind him. He’s in bedroom slippers; Yanan unwinds his scarf from around his neck and loops it hesitantly around his, relieved when Junhui makes no move to stop him.

Junhui looks up at him when Yanan steps away, lagging on the pull. “You finished it,” he says, dumbly.

Yanan offers him a tentative smile. “Yeah.” He points at the paper. “That’s your copy - it’s got a piano line written in, too. And I thought we could try a harmony this time around. Tell me what you think?”

Junhui smiles, but it isn’t at him, and there is nothing of joy in it. “You finished it,” he says again, more to himself than anything. There’s snow caught on his lashes, on his cheeks. Yanan’s hand itches, so he sticks it in his coat pocket to keep it still.

He looks up, then, and holds the paper out to him. “I’m glad,” Junhui says, simply. “Thanks, Yanan. I really should go inside now.”

This isn’t what he’d expected. “You didn’t even look at it,” Yanan protests, and does not make to take it back. “It’s - it’s yours, Jun. And I’m sure it’ll need a lot of edits from you, if we’re going to submit it for the competition.”

“The competition,” Junhui repeats, very slowly. He still hasn’t looked at the paper. “Sorry I made you do this, Yanan-ah.”

Before Yanan can speak, Junhui continues. “It’s not like - it’s not like it matters, after all. I know you must’ve spent so much time and effort on this, and for that to all be wasted... “ His hand drops back to his side. “Hey. Um, I think I’m going back in.”

“Junhui,” Yanan mumbles, dumbly, but this time Junhui doesn’t stop. Smiling brightly in a way it’s clear he doesn’t feel, he tosses Yanan a nonchalant wave before he spins on his heel and darts back inside. 

The door shuts behind him with a rattle, and even though he waits, there is no second act, no Junhui emerging with a laugh and a _gotcha, silly!_ Yanan loses track of how long he stands there staring at it, wind still buffeting his face. It is a lighthouse, lamp turned off, calling no-one to shore.

\---

The form is due on Wednesday, but Junhui doesn’t show up, doesn’t turn it in. Yanan braces himself when Takada-sensei purses his lips, eyes scanning the class, but does not say anything.

Like this the days slip into a blur. Yanan finds himself learning, again, how quiet the bicycle route home is. There’s no music in the empty hall, so he sits at the piano and taps listlessly at the keys until he gets sick of it. He doesn’t go there anymore.

He does perform their audition song, for the old men in the pub. Someone asks where the keyboardist boy is. He doesn’t give an answer.

The next day he forces himself to go to school, crawling out of the pile of clothes and sitting dead-eyed at the table in the morning as Yanwen comes up to him and presses herself into his side.

“Why’re you nice all of a sudden,” he mumbles halfheartedly, unable to help the way his mouth quirks up in fondness as he ruffles her hair. “Go back to being a brat, brat.”

“You first,” she says petulantly, then whispers into his ear. “I miss Jun-ge,” she tells him, very secretively. “Can he come and play again sometime?”

The hand resting on her head stills. "You know," he tells her, very slowly, "I would like to know, too.”

Later, when homeroom period starts, Yanan has just pulled out the various character checklists that are due when Takada-sensei clears his throat, looking troubled. 

"This is a bit sudden," he says, and suddenly his voice is miles away, filtering through pipes criss-crossing in lattices all around. "But ah, Wen-san is leaving our school. I just received the rush request just now - it's quite a pity he didn't get to say goodbye properly, isn't it?" He stops, clearing his throat, head bowed for an appropriate period of customary silence.

Then he clears his throat. And he's saying something else, now, but all Yanan can hear is the awful toll of a confirmation, a bell telling him that he's run out of time.

\---

Yanan practically tumbles out of the bus before it's stopped moving.

It is a steeply uphill climb, but he barely notices, racing against the densely pooled snow. _He wouldn't have_ , he tells himself, firmly. _He would have told me first. He can't just have left. Not like that._

But it's dawning upon him that there are things that aren't a matter of choice. He knocks once, then twice, then an urgent tattoo against the door until something shifts and it falls open. Yanan stumbles into an empty _genkan_ , tears through the hallways of the narrow low-ceilinged space - comes, finally, to a halt in a vacant living room, and sees through blurry eyes a lone sheet of paper resting on a familiar piece of cloth, neatly folded into a paper plane.

The paper trembles as he unfolds it. _Control Tower_. Junhui had read the song, after all.

_Super well composed! I knew you could do it ^w^_

There’s a _hanamaru_ drawn on it, with a cheerful cat’s face peeking out from behind. After an unbearable moment Yanan smoothes it into a fold and slips it carefully into his pocket. The rest of the room is bare.

His hands go to the floor, picking up the scarf he’d lent Junhui and looping it around his neck on auto-pilot. Absurdly, he finds himself running his hands over the cold linoleum, as if to rid it of any dust that may have gathered in the fleeting hours since when Junhui had likely left. Then he buries his face into the wool gathered at his chin, and allows himself at last to cry.

\---

When he steps into class the next morning there is a vase of yellow chrysanthemums on Junhui's table.

There's an audible break in the murmur of the classroom, like he's being watched for a response. And he can feel it, knows that children can be cruel for a joke, but he's one of them, too, and it stings potently all the more.

Almost mechanically, he picks it up off the desk. "Who," he starts, voice raised, feeling brave for the briefest sliver of the moment. Like he’s had a wound rubbed raw, pushed into the dirt. The rage surges in him like an angry welt, ready to be burst -

Until it doesn't. In a moment the fight bleeds out of him, and Yanan clams up again, turning instead to set the vase on the shelf at the back of the class instead. There it becomes suddenly innocuous, a slightly old-fashioned decoration.

"'m going home," he mumbles, as he brushes past a few of his classmates to grab his bag and go. For a while the classroom had become brighter, but now it’s worse than before, and he has to get out before the stillness eats him whole. "Excuse me."

\---

_("You get used to it after a while," Junhui says, squatting sideways against the gusts of wind so his hair is blown against the side of his head and across his forehead in ungainly clumps. Behind him the tower is nothing more than a silhouette backlit by the sun. "Leaving."_

_Yanan picks at grass and watches his fingers turn white with the effort of gripping on to the blades so they don't fly away. "But aren't you glad to be able to travel, at least? That's sort of an upside, right?"_

_Junhui observes him for a moment. "I never asked, but I guess you were born here," he surmises. "Me, well. I will always miss Shenzhen. It's my city. Always will be."_

_Then he edges closer, waddling awkwardly in the grass, and bumps Yanan lightly with his shoulder, offering him an almost secretive half grin. "But you know, Wakkanai isn't so bad either. It's nice, in its own way. Quiet. I like it, too."_

_Yanan huffs a laugh. "Thanks for sparing my feelings," he jokes. "I've never left this place, actually. So I have to take you at your word."_

_"Ah," Junhui says, mysterious all of a sudden. "But you know what, I think you'll be able to go anywhere you want to."_

_Yanan raises an eyebrow at him, mouth quirked in the beginnings of a smile. "What? Why?"_

_Junhui makes a show of looking him up and down, then loses his balance and topples backwards, squawking brightly. "Because you're a traveller at heart," he pronounces with utmost certainty. "You'll go wherever you want, someday.")_

\---

_Shibuya, Tokyo, 2009_

The radio host is beaming at them as they sit down neatly on one end of the broadcasting bench. Yanan nudges Daiki a little so he scooches over, then mouths a quiet _thanks_ , receiving a smile in return.

“Good _evening_ everyone, and thank you for tuning in to _Tokyo FM, School of Lock!_ Reporting today from our Shibuya studio I’m here with a brand new group. There are four members, and they recently made their smashing debut with _You Are Always My Star_ , which peaked at an incredible _number one_ on Oricon. Everyone, give it up for _ONE-SHADOW_!” 

Obediently, everyone in the studio claps. He turns back to them, attention fixed on each member in turn. “Now, word on the street is each of you plays a different role in the music and songwriting process… I heard that this group was formed from an audition contest as well. Why don’t you all introduce yourselves, one by one, and tell me a little about you?”

  
  


Despite the late hour, the stations are still packed to bursting. Out of the throng rushes a young, harassed salaryman; with some luck and the assistance of the dutiful stationmasters, he manages to make it on to the 9.17 Yamanote bound for Tokyo station.

Sighing, he checks his watch. He has a nearly two-hour commute back to his rented apartment in the suburbs just outside of central Tokyo. Shifting to get comfortable, he digs his earphones out of a pocket and untangles them to plug them into his handphone, thumbing through the menu until he gets to the radio function. He presses the button, and waits as the channel - 80.0MHz - crackles into reception -

and startles at a voice just this side of familiar, holds his breath, not daring to hope.

“ _...my B-side pick off our album is one that I helped to write, and I was very honoured it made it onto this album… it’s called Control Tower.”_

Another voice cuts in. _“It was his audition piece for the group!”_

_“Fantastic, fantastic! Ah, Control Tower… What a yearning title that is! And um, was it written for anyone?”_

A rustle, a brief silence. _“Uh. Yes.”_

The host chuckles. _“You were right, Shinichi-kun, he_ is _the shyest member. Well then, before we play it, is there something special you would like to say? To that someone, perhaps?”_

There is an almost audible hesitation. _“Ah… Yeah. Um. If you’re listening… wherever you are. I wanted to say… thanks for the hanamaru.”_ A deep breath. “ _We did it!”_

 _“What a cryptic message,_ ” the host muses. _“Anything more you want to add? No?_ ” There’s the sound of shuffling of paper. _“Well, thanks indeed for the hanamaru, Inspiration-san! And without further ado, everyone, we bring you Control Tower by ONE-SHADOW! Remember to show them your utmost support!_ ”

The opening strains of a guitar riff filter in through his ear pieces, and it’s an updated composition, but he knows that song nonetheless. He’d graded it, after all, five years ago.

For a moment Junhui just stands there, listening to the song and watching the city streak by. He lets himself briefly imagine what the studio must be like, with its bright glaring lights and large glass windows. He can’t quite remember if the general public can watch radio broadcast sessions. Makes a mental note to look it up when he gets home.

_‘We did it’, huh?_

Outside the lights of Tokyo are bright against the inky night. The person next to him jostles him on accident, and apologises brusquely but politely. Tomorrow he will have to leave the house before the sun is up to get to work on time. _And yet_ , he thinks, _and yet_.

“Yeah,” he mumbles at last, brushing a thumb over the luminescent green of his phone screen. The very corner of his mouth turns up, just the barest bit. “I suppose we did.”

_管制塔_ _どんな未来でも_  
_受け容れるよ_  
_変わらない_  
_僕らのままで_  
_\- (control tower, galileo galilei)_

**Author's Note:**

> (1) a hanamaru is a mark that looks like a narutomaki (the pink squiggly fishcake), drawn on worksheets to grade them. if the hanamaru is drawn fully it means you did a great job, whereas minor mistakes take a docking to the form of the hanamaru. it's (quite understandably) a little childlike.  
> (2) yellow chrysanthemums are, inter alia, a mourning flower.  
> (3) i will confess ONE-SHADOW is the product of me using a j-pop group name generator just for kicks... sorry yenanie. but if you were a j-rock/pop fan in the 00s then you know.


End file.
